Whatever It Takes
by alpheratz1
Summary: Desmond has been taught that it is pointless to fight one's fate. But when it concerns Charlie, he will do whatever it takes to change that bloody rule. - Set somewhere in S3. Desmond/Charlie SLASH.
1. Night rescue

The night was silent for everyone in the camp, except for the most distressed soul on the beach. Desmond just kept tossing and turning on the sand, for no matter how exhausted he felt, he just couldn't get any sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, those flashes about Charlie's death would come back and haunt him.

Such a curse. Such a terrible fate.

 _"Ye know, th'fate has a way of course-correcting..."_

Aye, course-correcting, of course. Except for the fact fate hadn't ever corrected anything, it was just playing with him, with everybody; leaving baits, so Desmond would believe he'd got clues that were nothing but traps.

He'd had enough. It was time to do something about it, for he had to save Charlie, he had to bloody move and stop pretending that fate was alright to accept!

Suddenly, Desmond stood up so fast, he felt dizzy. Something inside him said Charlie was in great danger at that same moment, and when he tottered outside the tent, his eyes focused on that image: Charlie was already pushing the boat towards the ocean, all alone, in the dark.

"Charlie!" he shouted in vain, for the distance was way too large for his voice to reach Charlie.

No time to waste.

Desmond quickly ran towards him and reached the Brit by the moment he had his feet inside the shallow parts of the ocean.

"Charlie!" he called once more, his lungs gasping for air, for his body wasn't ready for such a run in the middle of the night.

Charlie was clearly ignoring him and seemed to be really pissed off, his hands insisting on pushing the boat more and more into the deep water.

"Charlie! Charlie, please, brotha!"

At last, Charlie didn't listen at all, but Des held the boat with strength enough to make him stop, although the Brit insisted on the duty for a while. Obviously, he had no chances, since Desmond was much stronger and quicker than his fragile and tired body.

"Ye won't stop trying to kill yourself, will ye?" Desmond implied ironically, still holding the boat.

"What do you want, Desmond?" he whispered, avoiding the eye contact.

"To join ye, of course! Since you're clearly trying to murder yourself, Ah began to wonder if there ain't another place for me in this boat, brotha".

Those words seemed to wound him, as Charlie gave up on the pushing and lifted those blue eyes to the Scotsman. The vision made Desmond wobble, for although Charlie's eyes didn't express anything but anger, the swelling around them didn't lie at all. That Brit had been crying for the last hours, that's for sure.

"Piss off, mate" Charlie replied, the voice trembling. "Don't you remember your own words?"

"What words?"

"I'm sorry, brotha, but this time ye have to die" he said, imitating the Scottish accent. "You said it today, Desmond. So, you tell me now, what's the difference between sailing this boat in the morning or right now, brother? If my role in this bloody rescue is to die anyway, can't I choose the proper moment?"

If there existed any answer for that, it certainly wasn't inside Desmond's brain, 'cause every piece of his tired mind was filled with blank spaces after that. He gulped in hesitation, but as Charlie started muttering while showing intentions of pushing the boat once more, Desmond recovered his consciousness.

"Awright... Awright, Charlie... Bloody hell, Charlie. I'm sorry, alright? Ah didn't mean..." and gasped once more before recovering. "Ah mean..."

"It's alright, mate" he whispered. "Just let me..."

"No, just listen to me. A've had another vision."

Charlie's eyes widened and blazed in his direction.

"What vision?" he replied, nervous.

Desmond looked around, holding his breath, shrugging. The ocean was quite calm, but it was dark, and he was alone with Charlie, far away from the shore. He didn't even know what to answer, since he just came up with that sentence to stop Charlie from pushing. A'm needin' some more time, he thought. Some more time tae figure out whit tae say next.

"Can we get back to th' shore, pal?"

"What vision, Desmond?" Charlie insisted, staring as if he knew it was a lie. "Spit it out!"

"It's just..." suddenly, the brilliant idea rose in his mind, his voice now confident. "You're daein' it wrong. You're not supposed to die at night, Charlie. Ye must die while daylight".

"Daylight?"

"Aye."

Charlie thought for a while, nodding in agreement, despite his face didn't express much convincing.

"You're such a bad liar, Des" he replied, turning around, now pushing the boat back to the shore. "Whatever, brother".

Desmond didn't answer at all, for now he was afraid Charlie could change his mind. Together, they pushed the boat back to beach, and after reaching the sand, they glanced at each other for a while.

"Hope you're happy, Des. You've just ruined my only chance of having a useful death to this camp."

Oh, well done, Desmond thought to himself, now he's even more pissed off.

However, as he kept on listening to the Brit's complaint, a tiny little smile was formed on Desmond's lips. Although they hadn't dived in the ocean, the salty humidity remained on their clothes and hair, and the sea breeze made Charlie look even more adorable than usual.

"Even more... what?"

Bloody hell, what was happening to Desmond's poor and distressed mind?

"Any other brilliant visions concerning my perfect death? Maybe I should shave, brother?"

Oh, for God's sake, it had nothing to do with his mind! Charlie was just too bloody adorable, that was the damn truth.

"Aye, shave", Desmond muttered, looking away with a tremulous smile.

At least for that night, Charlie was safe.

For a moment, they walked their separate ways, but Desmond only got back to his tent to grab some blankets that he threw on the shore. He obviously wasn't getting any sleep, so the best option was to stay on the beach, eventually observing Charlie's movements, just to make sure he wouldn't join another suicidal mission.

All Charlie did for the rest of the night was play his lonely guitar, not so far away from Des. That sensitive boy was quite illegible for Desmond's simple manners, but deep inside his heart, the Scotsman felt something was wrong with the Brit. Just as if death wasn't enough matter to worry about, there was something else, something hidden inside those deep-blue eyes that made Charlie look even more broken.

But what could it be?

Despite the pure and true curiosity, Desmond couldn't get anywhere with those thoughts. He simply fell asleep, having a calm and dreamless night for the first time in a while, probably because of the sweet melody that was now caressing his ears.


	2. Blankets on the shore

Desmond woke up with a bunch of sand on his face. As his eyes adapted to the midday sunlight, he realized someone had placed some blankets on an improvised wood structure over his head, so that the brightness wouldn't hit him directly on the face.

"Yey! He's alive! You owe me thirty more dollars!" Hurley's voice sounded somewhere near Desmond's location.

What in hell was happening there? The Scotsman quickly sat on the sand, trying to figure out how in godforsaken earth he could had slept until mid-bloody-day. He rubbed his eyes while having some hangover symptoms, although he couldn't recall any drinks from last night.

Hurley was laughing and Sawyer was looking at Desmond with a very disappointed expression on his face.

"Whatever, Jabba", Sawyer replied, an evil smile forming on his lips. "The Scotty over there won't last anyway, so you'd better keep my money at hand".

Hurley rolled his eyes and came towards Desmond, a gentle smile on his face.

"Hey, Desmundo... I'm sorry, man. I wouldn't bet if I really thought you were dead, you know..."

Desmond had some hard time while trying to stand up, but he finally did so. He passed his hands again and again on the trousers that were ruined by the sandy night.

"Wha' happened? How come I..." but as the memory lightened inside his mind, Desmond stared at Hurley with worry.

Charlie.

Desmond had been with Charlie last night and he was pushing a boat into the deep sea and...

"Hey, hey, calm down, Desmond, man!" Hurley said, his hands shaking the Scotsman's shoulder as if he tried to bring disturbed Desmond back to earth. "It's alright, you know, you just overslept, but you kinda needed that, so..."

"Charlie" he stammered, his eyes still looking for the other Brit in the camp. "Where's Charlie?"

Hurley seemed confused, his eyebrows now lowered.

"Huh... He was right here and just went somewhere else, but..."

"Right here, mate" Charlie's voice replied.

Both Hurley and Desmond looked around, and there was Charlie showing up on the shore, coming back from Claire's tent. Desmond knew he was worried about that Brit, but the feeling that took place inside his chest was so profound, he asked himself for a while what was the bloody meaning of such a worry.

Despite he didn't want to overreact and seem more of a lunatic than everybody already thought he was, Desmond just couldn't avoid a smile from taking place on his own face. Hurley suddenly disappeared and he didn't even notice which side he went.

"Hi, mate" Charlie said. "Finally got the rest you needed? After sleeping for three years in that stupid hatch, you deserve to get some sleep after all."

The rest he needed...?

Oh, no, Desmond didn't get the rest he needed, not at all. It's true he had overslept, but with that image of the Brit-boy showing up just to ask him about how his night had been... Bad. That was actually really bad, but Des finally realized the rest he needed wasn't only related to a good night's sleep.

It was also related to...

"Aye, brotha. Ready for another three years in another bloody hatch."

That acid sense of humor! Charlie laughed at him for a while, just sharing the nice moment he also needed to experience himself.

"So, any dreams this time?", Charlie asked, his tone of voice expressing a little concern. But he didn't wait for the answer. "Bloody hell!", he shouted, running into the poor wood structure that had protected Desmond from the sunlight.

The wind was blowing really fast and the blankets that had been arranged in the woods were now trickling away on the shore.

"That yours?", Desmond asked, suddenly running to help him gather all those things once more. They finished the task in a few seconds. "Sorry, brotha, Ah didn't know that was yours. Someone placed that stuff over my head and..."

Oh, for God's sake. What was Desmond saying? What was he trying to explain?

He looked at the Brit with his eyes widen, as he had just realized there was a tiny miserable possibility that Charlie had placed those things himself over Des' head, to protect him from the midday sun.

Suddenly, Charlie pulled the blankets out of Desmond's hands, blushing. Oh, God, was he really blushing with that sulky expression once more?

"Don't know who placed his there" he explained, embarrassed. "These bastards are always getting my stuff..."

A nervous smile formed on the Scot's face, as he felt a pumping inside his own trousers. The tension dried his throat, his heart beating so loudly, that a sudden fear of Charlie being able to hear it rose inside his mind.

It was so wrong, so bloody wrong... Penny was waiting for him, Claire was counting on Charlie, but still...

No, it had to be an impression, just an impression. Of course it was only his heavy dirty mind playing tricks on him away, getting its revenge for being isolated for three years in a bloody dark and cold hatch, placed in the underground of a cursed island, in the middle of godforsaken nowhere...

"Well, I... I have to go and help Claire with Aaron."

"Aye... Sure..."

"See you later then."

Desmond nodded with that stupid expression on his face, gazing at Charlie while the Brit walked to Claire's tent once more. And despite the Scot didn't want to admit not even for himself, he instinctively scanned the whole tiny body that belonged to Charlie, and for some reason he felt a...

"Watch your head, Scotty!" Sawyer's voice shouted, but it was already too late, as the table tennis ball accidentally hit Desmond on his face.

So distracted. Such a shame...

Desmond finally shook his head and threw the ball back to Sawyer.

He had to figure out what was going on with himself, and more than that, he had to figure out if it was also happening with Charlie. He had to figure out, before those thoughts drove him mad.


	3. Truth always comes out

**A/N: Hi, everyone :) Someone wrote a review on the last chapter, so thank you very much. If you guys happen to find any mistakes, please let me know... We probably do have one last chapter after this one. Hope you enjoy!**

Hunting was the solution for all Desmond's problems. It had to be.

As if the attraction for another man wasn't bad enough, the Scot realized the jealous growing inside his heart as Charlie walked back and forth with baby Aaron in his arms, him and Claire exchanging funny looks eventually. Desmond could distract from those thoughts during the hunting, but not while dealing with the boar's meat, right next to their tent.

"Dude, what that boar did to you?" Hurley's voice said somewhere.

Bloody hell.

Desmond blinked his eyes, suddenly realizing he had been doing such a mess while butchering the boar's meat, all as a result of the anger. Claire was staring at him just as if Des had come out of a bloody horror film.

"I..." Des muttered, embarrassed. It was not his intention to show such unpolished manners in front of the others, he was just absent-minded. Maybe those three years of lonely had really made him a rude man. But that was not what he wanted to be.

Claire and Hurley weren't around anymore and the only lasting person by his side was precisely the Brit who was driving him mad. Charlie was chuckling as everybody else had left the Scot's side.

Desmond wanted to be upset at him, but he couldn't. He just grimaced at his own unfortunate situation.

"You're always around to laugh at me when I mess things up, huh, brotha" he complained, but in a good mood.

"Someone needs to be around and look after you, as these events are so frequent, Des."

"Aye, sure, look after me. Doesn't seem to be working at all."

"Doesn't it?"

They shared a lengthy moment of silence, both keeping soft smiles on their faces.

"It's so hard to figure out what's going on with ye, Charlie. One moment you're dragging a boat to th'deep ocean, th'next one you're juist holding baby Aaron around and pretending nothing had ever happened" he rose his dark eyes to the Brit, who also had a serious expression on his face. "Wha' should I do to keep ye safe from yerself, brotha?"

Charlie thought for a while, before answering:

"You said you had those visions, but you didn't know when they'd happen. I thought that maybe if I just went to the station, I could end this quicker. No one can stand being on this island anymore, they're all so anxious to go home" and Charlie paused for a while, hesitating. "Why did you stop me anyway? We both know I have to do his, Des."

"It doesn't maiter, brotha."

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?"

Desmond opened and closed his mouth for several times, as if he was struggling to say something that had to come out somehow. Finally, he found some courage to look the Brit in the eyes once more.

"I won't let it happen, Charlie. I'm done wi' this, brotha. I won't accept bloody fate anymore, I won't let this damn island take th' only hope I still got left after all this years."

Charlie was now gazing at him, for he didn't see that coming.

"W...What?" he gasped. "What do you mean, only hope?"

"Ye really don't know, do ye?"

The Brit widen his eyes even more, then he crossed his arms and looked downsides. Desmond tried his best to read that facial expression, but Charlie showed only anxiety.

"Des, I..."

"I've been delaying yer death 'til now and I won't stop doin' it."

"You can't just do that!" Charlie replied, in anger. "If it's my fate to die in here, you won't be able to avoid it! You'll have to stop living your life just to protect me, and that's nonsense!".

The Scot allowed himself a mirthless smile once more, for everything Charlie said was true. However, if death had to be Charlie's fate, Desmond would fight fate desperately, he would fight it until that fickle bitch named fate started to show some respect for his miserable situation.

"Ye still don't understand, do ye?" Desmond replied in a whisper, glancing at him sideways, in a pleading gesture, for he could not be even more specific. On the other hand, Charlie still seemed reluctant to accept his own thoughts, just as if its conclusion was so disturbing, it could not be real.

Aye, but if Charlie still couldn't understand the real situation, there was only one last shot Desmond could take to explain it.

Although the Scot knew that Charlie was probably in love with Claire, although he knew that he would be giving the 815-Oceanic's survivors one more reason to call him a lunatic, he had to finish this, he had to find out Charlie's feelings for himself. Desmond was a man of simple manners, and sometimes saying stuff out loud seemed just so unbearable, his choice was to make it with his own hands, even though it was obviously more risky.

He waited for Charlie's eyes to rise once more in his direction, and once they did, he just placed one hand on the Brit's face and brought it to himself, his lips suddenly pressing the soft ones that belonged to Charlie, his heart and his intimacies pumping so loudly with that single touch, that Desmond thought he would not me able to make it until the end.

But he did. Despite the sweet taste, the lovely fragrance that came from the Brit's skin and involved the Scot's lungs, he made it until the very end of the kiss. Or at least until he realized Charlie had that terrified expression on his face.

Bloody hell. There was Desmond, wasting things all over again, messing up all the stuff he still got left.

They parted the kiss almost simultaneously, while Charlie had those giant blue eyes widen in surprise, right in Des' direction.

"Desmond, I..." he gasped, not being able to find words to describe the feeling, which was probably based on surprise, hate, confusion or something even worse.

"I... I'm sorry, Charlie" he replied, his dark eyes lost in deep confusion as he tried to find some answer on the Brit's illegible face. "I'm so sorry. I... I don't wha'happened to me, I mean, all those years in that bloody hatch... They must have messed up with my brain, ye know..."

There was no point in trying to explain anything, because Charlie had no other reaction besides the tension and surprise, both still written all over his face. His blue eyes, still lost on the Scot's face, finally moved downsides, as he finally turned his back on Desmond and went away, back to his own tent.

Alone, with that boar blood on his clothes and that sad look on his face, Desmond realized he probably would have sent himself that same terrified look that Claire had sent him earlier, on that same day. He was such a waste.

However, what Desmond did not know was that Charlie's reaction was not based on surprise due to hate or disgust, but the actual opposite: it was based in such a sudden hope that rose in his heart, he did not even know how to react, finally deciding to run from the Scot. Charlie went straight to Claire, the only point of comfort he had on the camp and the only person who knew about his feelings for Desmond.

Yes, Claire would definitely know what to do.


End file.
